Facebook says I is a player's girl.
That cocky so-and-sos and know-it-alls
Just look at me and rise, as if to bait
And I just looks at them, and I falls.

I is wandering, looking for straw to catch
But facebook says I has four hundred friends
They can ping and poke and throw a sheep at me
Even kiss me, if I not taking offends.

Facebook say I don't know my own pals
And they also don't know me much, it seems
What we put to the test, who knows?
Perhaps we just don't burden pals with dreams.

Facebook says I is a goregeous thing
(And now I has to gorgeous someone back)
It says I is a top girl for the girls
I has the looks, the style, the social knack.

There was a boy I used to briefly date
He lied about forever wanting me
He had a girl in another town
On facebook, he a ghost haunting me.

Got friended by someone from long ago
He not a friend, he wasn't even when
There was a chance we would relent in time.
Except I dint; now he's tracking me again.

There's a boy who once knew a boy I loved.
He's on my list and says, keep in touch.
The friend I longed for isn't friending me
Well, I not suppose it matter very much.

Was a boy, I thought wasn't good enough
He brought his heart, I kept saying nonono.
Facebook says he married, has two kids
He certainly don't waste time going slow.

Seventeen facebook boys I want to date
They smart and could make me happy too
But they says 'it's complicated' on their page
And complicated, you knows, is not good news.

Someone wants to know what to see in me
I take a quiz, and that's how I find out
There's scary bits of pain stuck in my eyes
Funny how facebook knows whatall about.

An old man wants to say it with flowers
A young man wants to know my birthday date
A stranger says she from my college gang
Two hundred causes wants me to donate!

Facebook say, I a sweet, girly girl
Who wears a mask of laughter on her face
It say I is a crazy, unconditional type
With heart open, eyes shut to love's disgrace.

The girls, they send me poetry and stuff
They know how tough it is for girls alone
But I ignoring strange pending requests
I is done trying to make facebook my home.

I not a player's girl, I is not stupid
I is not a writer I has never read
And I is not going to die any time soon
Nor signing up on fan groups for the dead.

Facebook, facebook, stop tormenting me
I not the girl you make me out to be
I know already, don't need a quiz to see
The woman I is and what I was born to be.
(C) Annie Zaidi, 2009

Labels: Poetry

Essentials of journalism: Get facts. Get opinions. Get counter-opinions. Question everything.
Now here are (or what appear to be) the facts:
A seven-year-old girl is found dead inside a politician's car.
There are blood stains on her underwear.
Post-mortem report suggests 'smothering' as cause of death.
Police find out the child was also being treated for congenital heart disease.
Cop goes on record to suggest the girl died of a stroke, because of the heart disease. Explains away her presence in the politician's car by saying she must have felt sick and so crawled into the car to sleep.

The reporter reports whatever the cop says. The entire report is based on opinion. One cop's opinion. No doctors are quoted. Further details of the post-mortem report are not revealed. The girl's family is not quoted, not even with reference to the child's history of heart disease.

No questions are raised - not even the obvious one about why a sick, tired child would choose a politician's car to break into (unless the car was routinely left unlocked through the day), and how the child who supposedly went to sleep in the cool comfort of the car, then suffered a stroke while she slept.

Does it make any sense? Is this the obvious conclusion you would jump to when you heard the facts? Why is the investigating officer jumping to such conclusions? More importantly, why is the reporter not questioning those assumptions, or even the speculatory comments by the cop? And why is any news editor not intervening?

One might even allow for the possibility that the reporter was inexperienced and the desk editor somehow unavailable, why is the story still there up on the internet, without any changes or updates? I mean, my god!

"In old days men had the rack. Now they have the press. That is an improvement certainly. But still it is very bad, and wrong, and demoralizing. Somebody — was it Burke? — called journalism the fourth estate. That was true at the time no doubt. But at the present moment it is the only estate. It has eaten up the other three. The Lords Temporal say nothing, the Lords Spiritual have nothing to say, and the House of Commons has nothing to say and says it. We are dominated by Journalism."

The above words were apparently written by Oscar Wilde, in his long essay, The Soul of Man Under Socialism. (Correct me, somebody, if this is not correct). In the same essay, he also writes:

"It is much more easy to have sympathy with suffering than it is to have sympathy with thought."

Hmm. Hmmm. Much food for thought.

A few weeks ago, I offered to volunteer through Karmayog. On the form, I had mentioned that I live in a distant suburb, and that I could not commit to anything long-term or working on a daily basis. But I said I would still like to offer whatever skills I have to help children, preferably teenagers, or young adults. One of the few organisations that got back in touch was LEAD, a small group working with children from underprivileged backgrounds in Airoli. They told me that they worked under several limitations, and I told them of my own constraints of time, distance and reluctance to commit to a schedule. But I offered to do a workshop for the kids at the LEAD center, and they agreed to let me.

When I made the offer, I had no clear agenda in mind. All I had promised was that it would be interactive and creative. But I was not making a sort of 'lesson plan' or workshop outline, and I had good reason for not doing so. One, I have some experience of working with kids and I know that it is almost impossible to follow a teaching 'plan' unless you are familiar with the kids and their understanding of the subjects/topics you bring up. In fact, it becomes difficult to stick to a pre-decided format even when you are dealing with college students or professionals, if you want to make the meeting an interactive one.

The second reason is that, while I am not a professional conductor of workshops, I do have a fair understanding of communication and what short-term workshops can achieve. A workshop like the one I was planning - for kids from different age groups, who may or may not know the alphabet, may or may not have ever attended school - could not be successful if it assumed anything at all about its participants.

I had been warned that there would be several kids, ranging from four to fourteen. As it turned out, the range was even wider. There were at least two babies in attendance, on the hips of older siblings, and some other kids who were barely more than toddlers. Some seemed hungry, some irritable. Some physical powpowing was in progress. So I decided to do something that may not result in any immediate benefit, not on the face of it, but would give them enough to think about, or lead them to newer discoveries, fresh ways of looking at their world.

Besides, I wanted the freedom to switch between communication tracks at the last minute, depending on what the overall workshop mood looked like.

Getting to Airoli was a bit of a task. It involved three trains, an auto and a bike ride. The LEAD center was a single room with durries on the floor, a blackboard, a lot of posters and colourful pin-ups of the kind that belong to the average classroom. I had thought to start with a sort of game or exercise: getting the children to introduce themselves and also say a little more than just their names, something about themselves. I suggested that they say something new, which was not common knowledge in this room. The exercise did not go down too well.

Many of the kids were too shy to even tell me their names. Hardly any of them could say anything about him/herself, although there was a one little gentleman who announced that he was a boy, and also insisted that this fact was not common knowledge. When I arrived, I had wanted to sit and talk with the kids about their lives and their creative ambitions. Maybe get them to write some poetry, or even a play. But it was immediately apparent that I would not be able to do this without getting to know them a little better. There were too many of them. The room was too small and too warm. There were several adult volunteers around who were helping to keep order, but the noise levels were very high and most of the children were too young to be able to come up with poetry, off hand. I'm not sure they were old enough to understand what a poem was. They certainly weren't exposed to enough drama or other related arts for them to be able to jump headlong into a creative enterprise of their own. So I decided to save that for another day and try something else.

I have to confess that it was very hard. When I was younger I had sworn off teaching as a profession because I had seen, first-hand, what chaos little kids create, and how easy it is to turn into an ogre with a foul temper and an itchy palm, if you cannot get them to be quiet and attentive. So yes, it was hard to catch, and keep, the children's attention. The problem was compounded by the fact that I do not speak Marathi or Gujarati. The gaps between the kids' ages and educational backgrounds wasn't helping either. All the children were distracted. Even introductions were hard because some kids sat there in corners, looking like they'd been whacked just because I asked them their names, while other bubbly, super-enthu kids wanted to introduce themselves three or four times.

Some of them wanted to recite the alphabet, as soon as they saw my face. Some wanted to sing. Some wanted to take notes for whatever I said. Anyway, I spent a bit of time just getting each child to stand up and introduce him/herself. Then I introduced myself and asked them who they thought I was, what I did. I asked them what their fathers and mothers did, where they worked. Once they had finished telling me, I told them I was a writer. And then, I explained to them the concept of a writer - somebody who writes books and poems and articles for newspapers.

I borrowed a text-book from one child and opened it to the first lesson - which prompted some of the kids to immediately bring out their books, turn to the same page and start reading out (that should tell us something about the way our schools function). I pointed out that the simplest rhymes, essays, texts have to be created by somebody. Somebody who does this for a living. Then I moved on to newspapers.

I asked them to name newspapers they were familiar with, and their purpose. Some children came up with the right answers (the answers I wanted to hear, anyway) with relative ease. In fact, it was amazing to see them make that leap - from not knowing the connection between the act of writing and the morning newspaper, to a seemingly natural understanding of the function of media and processes surrounding news. I talked them through the whole process of writing for newspapers.

I started backwards - got them to tell me what they thought might be an interesting item of news from the papers. Someone mentioned a train accident. So we worked our way back to the source of this information. And then we moved forward again: from rumour to confirmation from official sources to eye-witness testimony, to the logical and immediate locations one must visit after a violent incident.

I was very pleased to see that I did not have to prompt them much. The kids knew, somehow, what to do. They said they would call up the police and the railways to get confirmation. They said they would go to the site themselves. They said they would next visit hospitals.

It was very interesting to see how early an understanding and instinct for media develops: how kids know about events and collect information, and what they expect from the administration and government. From there, I went on to the editing business. Told them what to do with a given piece of news, if they wanted to put it in a newspaper. Told them about editors, addresses, and how to approach someone with a story.

After that, I had them split into three smaller groups and told each group to come up with a story, the sort that could go into a local newspaper. The really little ones did not participate, of course. But with some encouragement from their regular teachers, many kids came up with stories. Several of these were about instances of theft in their own neighbourhood. One little girl kept insisting that her bindi was stolen off the mirror in her home. A little boy dismssed her report as lies, which led to her bursting into tears. One boy came up with a celebrity story (about Shah Rukh Khan being injured a few years ago). Others came up with tales of people being possessed by spirits/ghosts, and a widow going on a protest fast.

I was taking down all their stories on a blackboard, and they were all very excited, and were already fighting for 'print-space'! They all demanded that their stories be included and some were rather disappointed that their stories had to be wiped off, to make way for the next group. It was their first lesson in the ephemeral nature of success in the media, and the romance of the byline!

(It was amusing, actually, to see how little we change. Adult journalists can be equally petulant when it comes to having their stories on the front page, and they are just as sulky when their stories are dropped in favour of something bigger, or sent into the inner pages).

We also talked a little about front pages, newsiness, what peice of news deserves to be given the most visibility. Except for one little boy who insisted that Shah Rukh Khan deserved to be on the front page, even if the news was eight years old, most of the participating kids felt that 'theft' was the most important item.

It was a very basic lesson in media. I don't know where it will lead, but I am hoping that at the very least, the kids will start looking at news with a better sense of what is going on. I hope that in the future, it will help the kids think about mass communication and what it stands for. They might perhaps take a greater interest in newspapers, or consider the possibility of developing their skills in media.

I ended the workshop by asking their teachers, other volunteers, to see that the kids' engagement with media continues with some way. They could have the kids bring in news, take turns to read it out, or even do weekly exercises of the sort we'd jsut done. It would help the children to think about and discuss the world around them. And it would also help to get each child to speak up more often.

What I liked most about the whole evening was that the girls were more active participants than the boys. They were shy and giggly to begin with. But within a couple of hours, they had begun to speak with confidence and seemed to be really interested in listening. This matters to me because whenever I meet girls from underprivileged backgrounds who are thinking of careers, they seem to have two ideas stuck in their heads - tailoring, and beauty parlours. Neither of these professions brings in that much money, but they know that it is a step up from domestic chores; at least, it involves some sort of training and skill. Ask these girls what they want to be when they grow up, and the really little ones might say 'doctor' or 'teacher' or even 'film star'. But the adolescent girls, those who have had a chance to take a good, hard look at their lives and prospects, will often say they want to work in a beauty parlour. I wanted them to look at their options once again.

I wanted both the boys and the girls to know that it takes so little to be a journalist. Becoming a good writer might be a separate issue, but media work is essentially easy work and getting media training is not that much harder than learning tailoring or car mechanic work (sometimes, I wonder if the latter would not have given me a more stable career :)

[This is a modified, more personal account of the evening. I did another version as a report for the group after the workshop.]

Last night I cried in a movie
You cry, if that's all you can do
Last week I stopped reading a book
It hurt too much to see it through
There's bitterness there's misery
Things going wrong in my homeland
I fret but I don't do much more
It is not easy to take a stand
Besides, there are consequences
To building worlds better and free
'Coz somewhere up in Raipur jail,
A man is in for sympathy.

I saw a girl with legs splayed wide
She must have been eight or nine
She had a baby on her hips
She touched my arm then touched her lips
I knew her from everyday touch
She liked my hands, stroked my watch
She says, will you give something today?
Maybe tomorrow? But no, I say

Don't ask again, I will not pay
Don't tell me that you're hungry.
It's been two years in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.

Men sit on streets with cut off arms
They crawl to thrust your shame at you
You toss a coin but not always
They don't even expect you to
There are no rights about these things
Nobody has the right to ask
That you set this country right
To bring people out of the dark
You have a life, so you're afraid.
No reason why you shouldn't be.
'Coz somewhere up in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.

I heard two girls on prime time speak
The newspaper went on all week
About long years of rape at home
We talked about it on the phone
This strange beast they call incest
This man who wasn't just a guest
Where do you go when danger sleeps
In your bed and it's yours for keeps
How does a child escape and where
How to start over when she's free?
And somewhere up in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.

Tonight I'll watch a DVD
A story sweet and sad and blue
I'll cry for people dead and gone
And for the times we fail the truth
But I'll remember not to howl
No screaming, shouting, nothing loud
About rage or incessant pain
Not a word of blood or shroud
There are too many ears around
And not enough eyes that see
That somewhere up in Raipur jail
A man is in for sympathy.

[I wrote it for we all know who. But mostly, to try and figure out the nature of the crime of sympathy]

Labels: Poetry

(Caution: a bit of a ramble and a rant.)

Was talking to some friends - about films, good and bad, about books and the market, the usual sort of random chatter.

Somebody mentioned walking out of film theatres after having paid for tickets and how much it hurt. I said something about how it isn't so bad when you watch the same film on television or DVD because it costs less. Then later, I chatted to somebody else about people's expectations from those who need and consume entertainment/media. And was relieved to find that I was not the only one who thought that most artistes have unreasonable expectations of their audience, and its tolerance of their art.


I can only illustrate this through a personal example.

Born into this movie-mad nation, I grew up watching predominantly Hindi films. I have lied in order to watch films. Got into a lot of trouble for the sake of films. Drove from one town to another to watch films. Wept real tears if I couldn't watch a film. In short, I did the usual stuff millions of young people in this country do, just to be able to watch films.

By the time I went to college and starting buying movie tickets myself, I spent an average of Rs 28 per movie outing. The ticket (balcony) cost Rs 17, a cold drink or pastry or popcorn or samosa in the interval cost Rs 5-7, and Rs 2 for the tempo ride either way. If we were in an awful hurry and took an auto instead of a tempo, we spent maybe Rs 32.

This was a small town, true. But even when we went to the bigger cities, we never spent more than Rs 50 per head for a movie.

I still remember the first time I went into a PVR complex to watch a film. I was quite impressed with all the glass and the deep colours and carpets and humungous tubs of popcorn which nobody could quite finish. I didn't know how much it cost. My uncle, being a kind, gentlemanly type, did not enlighten me.

A year later, I bought my own PVR ticket for the first time, and almost died. One hundred rupees! Just for one ticket? I tried to confine myself to non-posh, cheaper cinemas. Two years later, the cheaper cinemas started disappearing and ticket prices began skyrocketing.

Within four years, I went from paying Rs 17 for a ticket to Rs 150, on an average. Another two years and I was paying Rs 200. On weekends, this could be Rs 250. Add to that some popcorn, a cup of coffee, and auto/taxi fares. A movie outing could cost Rs 500. Per person.

I couldn't afford that. Not every week. Not twice a week. Not then, and not now. Friends who make thrice as much money as me also agree that Rs 500 per head for a movie outing is outrageous. It means Rs 2000-2500 for the average family outing.

How many students, how many struggling artistes, how many young couples, how many teachers, how many non-corporate professionals in India can afford to spend such money on weekend entertainment? I can tell you, not many writers can.

And the thing is, these are precisely the people who might be interested in a new or different kind of cinema. If there is only one film being released every Friday, then perhaps they will patronise that one film. But if there are two or three, then they will watch only one; that is, if they step out of the house at all.

Recently, I read somewhere that occupancy in multiplexes stands only at around 40 percent, and I am not surprised. I went from watching almost every film I could sneak out for, every film that happened to be playing in the local theatres, to watching maybe one or two films in a month.

If you were a freelance writer, watching one movie a week would mean being able to sell at least two to three extra stories to the newspapers every week. I cannot name a lot of movies that were worth so much time and effort. Can any filmmaker working in this country honestly stand up and say his/her work is good enough to claim one tenth of the average audience-person's income?

The gains that were made through the multiplex culture - allowing for five or six different films to show simultaneously - are lost because of unreasonable pricing. There are enough people here willing to watch almost every kind of cinema you can conceive of. I rememner that we were just a bunch of students at a convent in a small town, yet we went to watch Deepa Mehta's 'Fire' two times, while cinema halls were being attacked in other places. We didn't know what to expect from the film but we were willing to give it a chance. I would like the chance to go on giving all kinds of films a chance. But get real about how much I'm willing in invest in that sort of chance.

Now, I find myself getting more and more intolerant of the few movies I do watch.

When I was spending Rs 17, I could walk into a hall playing 'Daag - the fire' with my mother, just because I couldn't think of anywhere else to go and sit on a hot afternoon. I saw the movie through. It was bad but it didn't hurt. We all sat through some films simply to be able to make fun of them.

In contrast, the last time I took some people out to a big-budget star-studded movie, I spent upwards of Rs 1500, and found myself cringing, wanting to walk out during the interval. It wasn't the worst film I'd ever seen; it just felt like that. It made me want to smack the filmmaker.

It is not like I expect tickets to stay at Rs 17 forever. I understand inflation. I understand infrastructure and maintainence. But reading about the current standoff between producers and multiplex owners, one would imagine that audiences are essentially interested in air-conditioning and the 'get-up' of the place. Or else, in just watching a film no matter what the cost in terms of time or money.

I say, ask me! I am your audience. And I am a good audience, reasonably intelligent and patient and generous when it comes to art.

Yes, I like nice cinema halls. Yes, I would like decent sound and clean toilets with running water. And I would prefer not to have rats and cockroaches underfoot. But that is not the point. The point is that I was anyway going out to watch movies despite the rats, despite the ripped seats, despite the amorphous, declassed 'crowd'. I resent being made to pay for facilities which should be the norm. All public spaces need to be clean. All theatres need to have decent toilets and running water and emergency exits. You need to hire enough staff and make sure that people do their jobs well. And I am willing to pay a little extra to make this happen.

But I resent being charged ridiculous amounts of money for popcorn and bad coffee. I resent people not respecting the little money I have and am willing to spend on their work. I resent the fact that people are paid in double-digit crores and they still cannot come up with anything remarkable, or even original. I resent the fact that those same people still want me to get out there and spend my money anyway, even though they wouldn't spit at amounts so small when it comes to their personal lifestyle or entertainment choices.

A pretty dress or a pair of shoes also give me pleasure. Music or theatre or going dancing gives me pleasure. If I have to pay Rs 40 for a cup of coffee in an airconditioned space, I might as well go to a cafe; why bother with cinema? If you cannot match a certain level of pleasure or offer the goods at better prices, then, well, tough! Make do with 40 percent occupancy. Go on raising ticket prices.

One of these days some cool cat in the media/software worlds will come up with a way to make internet cinema pay for itself. Already, we get most of my cinema from television or DVDs. Soon there will be something else.

In the meantime, sometimes, we pay those crazy prices despite the resentment. But filmmakers need to think about these questions - of the audience's valuation of the worth of cinema, of the common viewing experience, and of infrastructure. They will have to think a little harder than they seem to be thinking right now, especially if they want to make different kinds of films.

I stay away from a certain film not because I want a fixed amount of masala with my art. Nor because I am afraid of experiments. But if you're going to part me from my hard-earned money, then deliver. Deliver what I (which is not me personally, but the average audience member) expect and I will come to see your work again and again. I will come drawn by your name, your sensibility, your history, your passion.

Even if you cannot deliver, I will still come to watch some films. But I will play safe. I will start showing up to watch only when I am at least assured of some eye candy, or my favourite actors. For instance, I'll watch almost anything with Jude Law in it. And if I can watch Jude Law and get a reasonably interesting kind of cinema at the same time, why will I bother with a Hindi film heartthrob? More and more Indians speak and/or understand English. More and more of them have access to dubbed foreign films, or DVDs with sub-titles. Think of that.

I will probably watch Hindi movies anyway, even though I want to smack their creators sometimes, because I belong to this culture, because they're almost in my blood. But my loyalty to Hindi films is linked to their creators' loyalty to me and my expectations.

It is the same way with plays or books. I keep hoping that some storyteller is going to surprise me, enchant me, leave me with a scrap of beauty and truth, or change the way I think, or allow me to look at lives I'm not familiar with. But if he/she cannot do that, the least I expect is a little laughter and love. Which is why humour and romance - or the combination - draw people. Not because that is the only thing people want. But because that is the least they expect. There's a difference beween what people want, what they will settle for and what they expect.

The sooner we work that one out, the better it will be for all of us.

Saw and heard Mahashweta Devi today.

Random question from girl in audience:

"What is your take on the term 'feminism'?"

This was followed by a half statement along the lines of '...actually, I also do not agree with that term...'

Oh dearOh dearOh dear! These children who do not read and then open their mouths in public. I am considering supporting legislation that requires people to have read at least two hundred books (including at least five books by contemporary women writers) before they are allowed to ask questions at literary events.

When I was a little girl, I equated rape with death. The movies (and bad pulp fiction and even comics) were to blame, of course. I did not know yet that men - and children - got raped too and I was too young to know what rape meant, yet I was convinced that if a woman was raped, either she got killed, or she had to kill herself. The only other alternative was to die whilst fighting the rapists.

Nobody told me this. It was just an association of ideas. (For instance, thanks to Hindi movies, I also used to think that if someone saw you naked, you had to get married to him). While I was growing up, there was no concept of life, post-rape. The idea that a rape victim might want to live, and might want relationships and kids and so on at some point in the future, just didn't occur to us. It wasn't just me. It didn't occur to classmates or cousins either (if it did, they kept it a closely guarded secret). Our films didn't show us. The books we were allowed to read didn't show us. And no adult even mentioned the word 'rape' or 'sex' in our presence.

I did have a vague idea that it was the police were supposed to do something about it but rarely did, and that this failure led husbands or brothers or beloveds to take up arms and seek bloody vengeance. I also remember thinking that it had to be the worst thing that could happen to you, because not only could you not do anything about it, you also had to kill yourself. It didn't get worse than that, did it?

In my teens, I watched a few movies where an alternative was presented - you married your rapist. Or rather, he married you. You even got to sing songs through the whole mucky business. (It is worthwhile noting at this juncture that the Supreme Court of India, even today, is having to pass orders that specify that an offer to marry a rape victim doesn't mean bail for the rapist.)

The first time these odd ideas were shaken off their perch was when I saw Zakhmi Aurat (Wounded Woman). I cannot remember how old I was. I still didn't have a clue about what rape meant but with this film, two things came undone. One, the way the rape itself was treated. Until then, rape scenes meant actresses were running - usually in sarees or lehenga-cholis, sometimes in slow motion - or attempting to crawl backwards as they lay on the floor or bed, wherever they had been tossed. The villian would be struggling to pull away her pallu. Even when I was little, I used to wonder why the girl spent so much time and energy holding on to the fabric, clutching it to her chest, saying 'Let go!'; why didn't she just drop the saree and run?

I have seen Zakhmi Aurat only once. But that rape scene has never left my memory. Here was a young woman who dressed in pants. A cop, in fact. And she was being gang-raped inside her own house. She wasn't just somebody being used to satiate a villian's ungovernable lust. She was being deliberately humiliated. In fact, she wasn't just being humiliated. She was being physically hurt. This was the first time I remember thinking: "Oh my god, they are going to break her bones, or crack open her skull."

This was the first time I saw a film that showed the trauma of life after. Because, instead of hanging herself from the ceiling fan, leaving an accusatory note behind, or complaining to her brother about her stolen 'izzat' and how she was no longer fit to show her face, this victim was still living in her own house where different objects and spaces were constant reminders of her pain and humiliation.

Most significantly, this was the only movie I had seen thus far in which a victim takes some action barring murder. She puts together a vigilante gang of women who have been raped themselves or whose family members have been. They start kidnapping rapists and castrating them. Surgically, mind you, with the man being placed under anasthesia.

It was much later that I found out that this was supposed to be a controversial film. Some people had objected to the sheer number of rapes and the explicit scenes. I still don't fully understand the controversy and don't want to get into the politics of crime and punishment at the moment. All I want to say is that it was an empowering film for me.

For the first time in my life, I was being offered the idea that rape was brutal but it need not lead to death. For either victim or culprit.

There were other ways in which this film broke away from stereotype. It showed the rape victim being dumped by her fiance, but afterwards - after she is arrested and put on trial - he finally asks her to marry him. She is pleased to be taken back, of course. But even this - a happy ending - seemed like such a novelty in a film centred around rape. Besides, it got me thinking. I remember thinking that perhaps, the heroine should not be going back to her fiance, not after the way he abandoned her when she needed him most.

The only other Hindi film that helped me break away from stereotypes around rape and the bhartiya nari was a black-n-white one called Patita (it has that lovely romantic number 'Yaad kiya dil ne kahaan ho tum...').

This was the first Hindi film I saw in which a rape victim is not only happily married - not to the rapist, thank god - but where her baby is a product of rape, accepted and cared for by her handsome husband. It was the first time I saw a screen rape victim being allowed to sing romantic songs in the moonlight, allowed to be something other than traumatised.

Another scene from Zakhmi Aurat that surprised me was actually a song. The villain/rapist has just been castrated. He is back home and now his wife is demanding sex. She is attempting to seduce him and he is pretending to have turned spiritual, to have undertaken a 'Brahmachari' fast (which means that he is going to abstain). His wife sings and dances and finally strips him, which is when she discovers the truth.

The song was supposed to be comic, I suppose, and I cannot decide whether it is in bad taste or not. But it achieved something important. It showed that rapists might well have non-aggressive sex lives, that their relationships with their wives might be very different, that their wives might actually be happy, and completely clueless about their husbands' brutalisation of other women. This idea came as a bit of a shock to me. I still find it a little hard to deal with, but it taught me to think of things that are flattened out of the frame when you allow for only unidimensional screen characters. It taught me that just as victims can be stereotyped, rapists and their families can be stereotyped as well.

Possibly, if I watched Zakhmi Aurat now, I'd find fault with it both from a cinema/storytelling perspective and a feminist perspective. Nevertheless, the film is significant.

Just like The Accused was significant. I was made to watch by a friend. In fact, her father had made her watch it while she was quite young. Perhaps, he wanted her to know that she should never, ever, blame herself in case something like that happened. That it doesn't matter if you're drunk, or drugged, or promiscuous, or in a bar, or even if you have been kissing the accused. Perhaps, her dad was trying to tell my friend that even if other people are blaming you, or laughing at you, you shouldn't give up. Not when it comes to justice for yourself.
And I am grateful to my friend for leading me to the film. Like every other woman, I was brought up on the usual bullshit ideas that seek to shift blame onto the victim. The Accused once again shook up my ideas, forced me to look at rape victims with new eyes.

What really worries me is that over the last two decades, I have not seen any Hindi movies that take this a step further. I remember the horror of the rape scenes in Bandit Queen, and there has been the odd rare film that puts rape in perspective within the context of the film (Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi did so), without allowing it to become the dominant feature in the female lead's life. But by and large, either filmmakers avoid the subject altogether, or end up churning out rubbish that echoes old justifications for rape, such as how a woman dresses, and where she goes. The rest of the film is often about everything else - from the horrors of westernisation to the erosion of values amongst spoilt rich brats - except the rape itself and the way our society deals with victims.

Perhaps, the trouble with too many artists is that they forget their own power. The power of media. Films and books are as much a tool for challenging social ideas as they are tools for emotional discovery or just plain storytelling. You can break stereotypes. You can stretch limited imaginations. You can help others become less judgmental human beings. You can save children. But you have to want to.

(Cross-posting now on BlogHer)

When I read that an editor in my country has been arrested, on the grounds of having outraged me, all I could feel was shame, and revulsion. For those who claim to believe in a god I can lay claim to, those who have kidnapped the prophets who were my inheritance. For those who buckled, despite having assumed the responsibility of ensuring that my rights were not violated in my own land. For governments and administrations that choose to arrest editors, instead of those who threaten them.

I am ashamed that we live in a country where someone is not allowed to call religion(s) oppressive. I may or may not agree with that view, but I want the right to say it, to agree with it, to put it into print, and to reprint it as many times as I think fit.

I am ashamed that not one newspaper in this country has seen fit to create some noise about this. That not one newspaper is running a campaign against threats to free speech from every upstart, self-appointed guardian angel of some random group's sense of self-esteem. That editors across the country have not seen fit to republish that so-called outrageous article, as a mark of protest.

And I am ashamed that an artist cannot show nudes at Jehangir Art Gallery any more, the place where I spent so much time hanging out, absorbing art, thinking, interpreting, sniggering, criticising. It galls me to spend time in that gallery now. When I sit in Samovar and order a cup of tea, I cannot forget that this is a place that didn't even bother to wait and find out if it would be targeted by the police, or random goons who are afraid of undressed people. It taped up its own face, willingly, before it could be gagged.

I am ashamed that we are so quick to bend into terrorised little kowtows, that we prefer to walk around with someone else's nauseous rags stuffed into our mouths. Really, this doesn't feel like the country I was promised. A democratic, sovereign, socialist republic that guaranteed free speech and free expression of ideas. I thought.

Talking about films - or any art form - can be a draining exercise. I am often overcome with a sense of futility mid-way through such conversations, because you just cannot get the other person to see. For instance, that eternally raging debate about poetry and 'access'. Or that completely abhorrent debate about whether Shakespeare was a plagiarist, and whether there is any such thing as an original idea. Or whether violence in films has a negative impact on society.

I usually just shut up and smile politely when someone picks up one of these fatiguing threads in conversation. But the other day, I got into a bit of a discussion that took off from poetry and modern mediocrities, and ended with an allusion to our 80s cinema. To that era of Hindi cinema that is described as 'the dark ages'.

I didn't like that. It suggests that Hindi cinema during that decade had stooped to lows that it had not seen before, and has not seen since.

I'm not sure I agree. When I was growing up, all I saw was Indian cinema - mostly Hindi, but thanks to Doordarshan, some other languages too (Sound of Music, which I was subjected to six times at least, does not count). But having been only a small child in the 80s, with very few tools of analysis, or indeed any real judgment, I am no longer sure whether my memories of that cinema are true.

So before I said anything further on the subject, I decided to go do a little research. (And having stayed up till 5 am to do this post shows just how strongly I feel about this subject).

What exactly was the 80s cinema?

Was it all about loud, regressive, violent, formula films (another post on this term, another day) where heroines were being raped all the time, and then committing suicide, and where the villians were evil beyond measure and the heroes were from amongst the great unwashed and looked it? Where things were black and white too often, and all characters were unidimensional? Where the song and dance routine was increasingly looking like an aerobics class crossed with, with, I don't know, genetically modified moonwalkers? Where Bharat natyam costumes were being mated with bikinis, and sarees with minis?

Maybe some of it was. But a lot of it wasn't. In the year 1980, we had movies like Aakrosh, Khubsoorat, Karz, Sparsh, Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai and other widely acknowledged brilliant films which I have not seen. There were others which weren't bad at all (in my opinion), such as Kala Pani, Shaan, The Burning Train.

In 1981, there was Laawaris, Ek Duje Ke Liye, Love Story, Umarao Jaan, Zamane ko Dikhaana Hai, Kaalia, Dhuaan, Naram Garam, which I liked. And 36 Chowringhee Lane, Chashm-e-Baddoor, and Silsila.

In 1982, there was Angoor, Arth, Bazaar, Gopichand Jasoos, Namak Halal, Namkeen, Bemisaal, Nikaah, Prem Rog, Satte pe Satta and Shakti, many of which I've watched multiple times. (Besides, IMDB tells me there were also titles like Bachche Teen Aur Daaku Chhe, which I must make an attempt to acquire, some day).

In 1983, there were films like Himmatwala and others in that genre, which I didn't care for. All the awful stereotypes apply. But, but, but!

But there was Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron! The year 1983 gave us this awesome film and there's been nothing like it since. And there was the equally awesome Ardhya Satya and Mandi. Other films that I am content to like included Betaab, Disco Dancer, Kalaakaar, Naastik, Sadma (wherein I am told, I howled the movie theatre down, repeating "But mummy, why did she leave?").

The year 1984 gave us Saaransh, Mashaal, Utsav and (though I have not yet seen it, I have heard so much about it that I'm going to put it down as a positive) Mohan Joshi Haazir ho! It also gave us Tohfa (which I'm not a fan of), but that's in the Himmatwala category.

From the 1985 list, I liked Meri Jung, Aitbaar, Jhooti, Khamosh, Pyari Behena, Saheb. (And as a matter of principle, I must try and watch Aurat Per Ki Jooti Nahin Hai). Though I don't remember these too well, I think I didn't mind Aakhir Kyon, Bhavani Junction, Ghulami, Pyaar Jhukta Nahin, Mohabbat, Ram Teri Ganga Maili, and actually, even Bhaago Bhoot Aaya. Not great, but I could live with them.

In 1986, I liked Anubhav, Chameli ki Shaadi, Ek Chadar Maili Si, Naam. There was also Jaanbaaz, Nagina (so sue me. I liked it) and Aakhri Raasta, which I will include on my list of likes simply because of its unashamed self-spoofing in the song "Gori ka Saajan".

The lyrics go something like: Yaad karo tum filmon mein/kya kya scene dikhaate hain/ Leyt ke baatein karte hain/ daud ke gaana gaate hain/ Main peechhe bhaaga/ tu aage daudi/ Lo ji shuru ho gayi love story..." and all the while, the hero and heroine are happily running, lying down, singing. Matching-matching action to word. I love it.

In 1987, there was Mr India, Ijaazat, Kaash, Ye Woh Manzil To Nahin. I vaguely recall having liked Pyaar Ki Jeet and Mohre too.

In 1988, there was Tezaab, QSQT, Hero Hiralal, Malaamaal, Main Zinda Hoon, Pestonjee, Rihaee, Salaam Bombay!, and a film which most of us have not seen but I have heard so many wonderful things - usually in the realm of hyperbole - from those who have seen it that I will include it in this 'the 80s gave us good cinema' list - Om-dar-ba-dar.

There was also Zakhmi Aurat, about which I will do a whole post some day, because it was an important film, even a life-altering one. And there was also a rather sweet children's short film called Angootha Chhaap, which I might never have seen except for the fact that Doordarshan once decided to show two shorter films instead of the regular Sunday evening movie. All these years later, that film is still there in my head!

These I didn't think were so bad: Dayavan, Pyaar Ka Mandir (the title song is still stuck in my head), Hatya, Khoon Bhari Maang.

In 1989, there was Chaalbaaz and Chandni, Maine Pyaar Kiya and Daddy, Parinda and Prem Pratigya, Raakh and Ram Lakhan and Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro - all interesting for very different reasons. And there was also Nigahen (shut up! okay?) and Tridev.

So these were the 80s for me as a film-lover. It is true that I suffered through Loha, and Paap Ko Jalaa ke Raakh Kar Doonga, and Mardon Wali Baat, and a hundred variations on 'khoon' 'insaaf' 'insaan' and 'suhaag'. But so what?

I also suffered through Bal Brahmachari (introducing Puru Rajkumar), in the nineties, and that was the first film I actually walked out of. Since the multiplexes came in, I have become picky about what I watch on the big screen, but I'm sure there are several films made in this decade that you wouldn't wish upon your friends.

Can you think of more than five or six decent-to-good films made in a single year, in this decade? If this is our average count now, and that was the case in the 1980s too, what's the difference?

Somebody is bound to pipe up now with the 'Oh, but you are counting parallel cinema' argument. I don't buy that argument. Hindi cinema is Hindi cinema. You cannot cut films like Arth or Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron out of the '80s Bollywood frame. No more than you would cut Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi out of this decade. The point is not big names or big money. Even now, the biggest names and the biggest money is associated with sub-standard movie-making. Even now, the really different films, the experimental films - a sort of parallel cinematic movement, if you like - are made on smaller budgets, and fresh talent.

So what, then, makes us so tolerant of 'now', while dismissing the 80s as the dark age of Hindi cinema? Is it just that we are tolerant of anything that is ours - our children, our cultures, our cinematic eras, ourselves? And if that is not the case, then please, explain.

A few days ago, a friend had handed me a copy of A Grasshopper’s Pilgrimage and asked me whether I’d like to review it on this blog. I was a little surprised because I’ve had very few such requests, and besides, reviewing is something I do very reluctantly, because it feels like too much of a bother having to explain why a book or film worked, or didn’t. But here goes:

I must begin with a disclaimer and a confession. I am totally not into spiritual reading. I shy away from books that come with spiritual/religious tags and over the years, I’ve become suspicious of anything that describes itself as a ‘journey of the soul’ or something along those lines. Which is not to denigrate the genre. It is just that I personally start to get restless and irritable at the mention of the soul.

It was, therefore, with a small measure of trepidation and guilt that I agreed to do this review. It isn’t fair to approach a book with shelf-sized biases. That said, I have to confess that this book was a pleasant surprise. It was smooth reading right through. Author Manjushree Abhinav chose to tell an honest story instead of wrapping up a sermon in a novel’s cloak.

A Grasshopper’s Pilgrimage takes you through confusion and heartbreak, and the romancing of Gopika’s soul. The protagonist is a young, attractive woman from a family of atheists and finds herself inexorably drawn to Gurus, meditation centers, ashrams and the like, much to the consternation of her revolutionary grandparents. Each time she thinks she has found a solution, she is forced to reconsider – questions, answers, solutions, free will, screws, all of that.

Those are big words and big dilemmas, yes. But I think what works in this novel is that the protagonist is very real. Her language feels real. Her family and social context feels real. Her disappointment about love not being such a pat little affair, and her fears about not being good at her job, not knowing what she is good at – these are themes anyone can identify with, regardless of how deeply rooted they are in the spiritual realm. For a spiritual book, this turned out to be surprisingly temporal fare, and I’m glad I read it after all.

My personal take-home from this novel: it forced me to think. Mostly about why I resist spiritual reading (or viewing) so hard. I think I found some answers too. But that’s for me to chew on, alone.

To others, I would recommend the book if you’re looking for reading that isn’t so light that it becomes meaningless, and yet is not so heavy that you’ve got to shake your head every ten pages to make room for more verbiage. Finally, it is a well-written account of a young woman looking for – presumptuous of me to say this, but I’ll say it anyway – herself, and of the people who helped her get there. It is a story well-told and that’s why we read, don’t we?

Months ago, I had been tagged to do a post on feminism. It should have been easy, especially for someone who has publicly declared that when it comes to the word feminist, "I don't care how you define it. I am it.'

But oddly enough, it isn't easy. Not when the words you borrow to speak about it are already hoarse with overuse. And how large is my experience of feminism anyway? It scarcely moves beyond outrage and argument, chafing and resenting. But perhaps it is time to think a little bit more about women and their battles. My trigger came from here. From the first comment specifically, which amused as much as it angered me.

I will, for the moment, just focus on the way the said gentleman (or woman, one never knows) chose to express his disapproval. "Show us how advanced you are.... open a brothel... Let us f*** you for free..."

My immediate reaction was to point out to the said gentleperson that the idea of a brothel involved remuneration. No freebies. But then, I got thinking about the linkages in his mind that led him to say this. Is that how 'they' think of 'forward' women. As a collective brothel, except you don't have to pay.

I'm not sure what to feel insulted by - the suggestion that I am a prostitute or the suggestion that I should let future sexual transactions be unencumbered by monetary considerations, or the underlying idea that women who go to pubs must forfeit their claims/rights to payment, even though they are prostitutes.

There is an interesting, amusing polarity being set up here. The gentleperson - and there might be billions of people all over the world who agree with him on this - seems to suggest that women can be one of two things. One - forward, loose, pub-going prostitutes who are not looking for, and not entitled to money. Two - backward, socially and sexually conservative, non-drinking (at least in public) non-prostitutes.

About this latter category, two further deductions are possible. One, 'they' (said gentleperson and the billions that are on his side) assume that non-prostitutes, not being prostitutes, do not seek money for sexual services. As a corollary, they seem to suggest that non-prostitutes are the ones who actually do deserve payment, because the rest of us (forward, loose, pub-going prostitutes) do not.

In the latter case, there is a problem, because the moment a person starts accepting money, however indirectly, for sex or related services, he/she becomes a prostitute, whether or not he/she goes to pubs, falls in love, holds hands by the sea, wears chaddis, etcetera. Some of those billions out there might wish to add to the list of prostitution pitfalls - any woman who wears jeans or skirts, any woman who wears red, or white, or pink, any woman who smokes, any woman who wears make-up, any woman who laughs loudly in public, any woman who doesn't cover her head, and maybe her face too. But then, let us not venture into that territory.

Let us focus.

In the former case, there is no ostensible problem. Here's a non-prostitute. And she is not asking for money. However, if she started going to pubs, or taking lovers, then she would turn into a prostitute, even if no money enters the picture.

So there are two factors to be kept in mind if one wishes to remain a non-prostitute. One, you cannot ask for money. Two, you cannot go to pubs or fall in love. If a woman goes to a pub with her husband (who is not paying her for sex, of course) and/or happens to be in love with him, then she is treading a very fine line. She risks being a prostitute. Perhaps, a prostitute with a protector who insists on exclusivity.

But if she is not going to pubs and is not taking lovers, she is neither forward nor loose. Which is what 'they' would like all of us to be.

There is still the curious matter of the assumption that a man is entitled to freebies at a brothel. Because you see, the world is full of prostitutes (by 'their' definition). And you might well choose to make them pay for it. Beat them up. Or quite simply, f*** them for free and leave them. But then, since you would have have availed of and, in the process, rendered sexual services, and also made the other party pay for it, you would by default become a prostitute.

So if 'they' are now a collective brothel, there is this question of whether or not they should be f****d for free. If no, then they are exposed as illogical hypocrites. If yes, then that makes the world one big brothel, except there is no immediate, explicit monetary transaction involved with neat breakdowns in columns and rows. Which is exactly what the world is, by and large.

Which would bring us to the question of 'which way forward?'... It is all very confusing, isn't it?

I am concerned with words because they hold the key to social understanding. We use some words pretty loosely amongst friends. 'Prostituting our art'. 'Prostituting our souls'. 'A slut for chocolate'. 'Book slut'. 'Cinema whore'. What we mean, really, is that we are either doing something only for money, or that we are passionately devoted to something, to the point of not being very discriminating about the object of our affections, or else, to a point that seems to be unreasonable to the rest of the world. Prostitution is defined by a need for money. Sluttiness is defined by passion or devotion.

Therefore, gentlepersons leave amusing comments. He was confused, of course. Because forward, pub-going women don't do it for money. So, you can call them prostitutes, but you cannot tempt them by the rules of the protitution industry. And you can call them sluts, but you cannot win their devotion so easily. So obviously, it isn't that easy to f*** them, unless you use force. Or unless they let you. Difficult position, no?

As a society, I think it would do us good to think about words and concepts a little more. To think about what we mean before we open our mouths (or hit the 'send' button). Maybe we should introduce this as a subject in high school. It is not enough to just pick up words and start using them in grammatically correct ways. We also need to relearn and reexamine why we use those words, where they come from, and when it is time to stop using them.

For instance, I think it might be advisable for both interviewer and interviewee to read just a little bit about the brassieres, their predecessors, their purpose and what they symbolise to the female spirit aching for independence from sundry crushing expectations. It might also be advisable to look up 'psychotic' in the dictionary and a brief history of the feminist movement, so that next time the word is brought up, there is no need to point it towards someone like an accusation, and no need to defend onself from the charges of being one.

Labels: feminism

So, here's some of what has kept me busy over the last few months. Incidentally, the article misquotes me slightly. What I said was that I hadn't written poetry for six months, but I was working on other kinds of fiction and non-fiction. Also, this is technically not the first play I've written. But it is the first full-length one written entirely in English.

I didn't win eventually, but the shortlist brings some reassurance. Perhaps, I'm doing what I should be doing, after all.

Labels: writing

I have been silent on this, as on many other things for a while. And gnawing at me, always, the guilt of not doing more. I was the one who said, we've got to stop taking it. I was someone who believed that to suffer oppression in silence is like tantamount to being part of the oppression. And yet, for days and weeks and then months, I did nothing at all about Blank Noise.

What does it mean to say you are involved with something when you fail to put in time and effort into pushing this cause? I don't think I can ever stop being involved - or thinking of myself as involved - as far as street sexual harassment is concerned. And yet, it gets harder and harder to find the fight within, and take it to the streets.Yet, every few days, I remind myself. That it is out there, the fight. Every few days, the fight comes back to me.

Even though I take buses very, very rarely and only as a last resort, and even though this is much against my own will. This is to say that I haven't stopped stepping out on the streets, however, and I have not stopped confronting harassment. This is to say, I haven't stopped feeling angry.This is also to say that sometimes I get really, really tired. Sometimes, I cannot bring myself to step out of an auto-rickshaw and cross the road, and instead, I make the driver take a series of very inconvenient turns on very jammed/dug-up inner lanes, just so he can drop me at the very doorstep. Sometimes, in the inner lanes of a posh neighbourhood, some stranger says something that is humiliating and is intended to humiliate, and very often, I am too tired to find something to say in response.

And this is to say that sometimes, I cannot find my tongue. I want to retaliate but find myself looking at the time instead, and up and down the road and counting the number of people there are about, and wondering what sort of people they are and whether they will think I had it coming, because just look at the time.This is to say that I have begun to understand how people who join movements feel. Not professional activists. Just ordinary people with jobs and deadlines and daily commutes, who decide to fight back, and then begin to think that it doesn't matter how long they fight and how hard. They are outnumbered, out-powered and for their particular cause, always too poor. And bad news just keeps coming in, year on year, each time wearing a new head, so that the problem just looks bigger and bigger. Like some sort of hydra-headed monster. Cut one head down and another appears, malevolent, reaching for you.This is to say that I have begun to feel a sneaking, shaky streak of violence crowd my heads on the streets, sometimes, and I have to stop and shake my head and let go of it. That I have a diminishing sense of proportion about what sort of reaction is justified, and when.This is to say that I have begun to spend more and more time wondering what to wear. It is stupefying and stultifying and I thought it was over, this reconnaisance of a wardrobe like I was going out to battle instead of hanging out with friends in some cafe or pub, but it isn't over.What happened in Mangalore was harassment. Not moral policing. Harassment. Violent, and deeply sexist harassment. It was a form of terror, actually. Using violence in the name of nation/religion/ideology. The attack was political and deserves to be treated as premeditated political violence.

My first, immediate reaction was that those so-and-sos deserve to be repaid in their own coin. One fine evening when they are chilling with their cronies, a gang of armed women should descend upon them and beat the living daylights out of them, abuse and humiliate them in public, with a dozen television crews looking on. But then, we are a democracy and, at least in theory, governed by criminal procedure codes. So my next thought was that these people should be picked up by the cops and have the living daylights thrashed out of them. That wouldn't be very lawful either. And Gandhiji wouldn't have approved, I guess. Though I have my doubts. If Gandhiji ever caught his sons attacking peaceful women sitting around nursing a drink, I have a strong feeling that he would use his danda after all.
Sometimes, I begin to wonder if I am wrong about this staycalmretortbutdonotgetviolent attitude to violent, abusive strangers. Sometimes, I begin to wonder if the world would not be a better place if governed by hard-drinking mothers who consistently use hairbrushes on their sons' backsides.

Because, this is to say that it won't go away. This constant fear of what might be done to you because you are a woman and somebody might accuse you of being something they think you shouldn't be and then proceed to insult you or hurt you physically, and then you might be stuck in law courts for the next fifteen years trying to have them tossed in jail for a few months. This terror that it might be your turn next time, Mumbai instead of Mangalore, is not going to go away. But this is also to say that hiding inside homes, or cars, or sticking to very elite venues won't make it go away either. So even if it isn't going away, its got to. Somehow.
I don't know how. I don't know if slow, steady conversation, sharing, documenting, information disseminating is the way forward. Or petitions and legal interventions should be the focus. Or whether street art and exhibitions will help. Or whether we should all turn into counter-terror volunteers. Or what. But somehow.

Because we must not forget.

It has been a while now, since I took time off from work. That is, paying work that allows me to feel independent.
One reason for this break was that I wanted time to focus on my own writing. That is, writing that I want to do, regardless of whether anyone wants to pay for it, publish it, praise me for it, or not. The other reason is that I had begun to feel I was on very uncertain ground. I needed to think about many things. About how I work, what I choose to write, in which genre, and whether my work means something after all.
I was not - am not - looking for reassurance. I don't need to be told "Oh, but journalists/writers like you are needed". I'm objective enough, unsparing enough, to know why a certain kind of writing is required and what it accomplishes. But I needed to figure out whether I am willing to pay the price I must, in order to go on writing.
All writers, across genres, have to pay the price for their choices. Some brilliant minds who would rather write about ecology end up writing inane pieces about how the manufacturers of X detergent or Y soap might kill the competition. Some feminists end up writing about the inevitability of Brazilian waxes or the merits of 'settling' for a man, as long as he'll marry you. Some have written about their own despair, and died of it. Some have written their truths and been exiled or jailed or murdered for it.
They could have chosen not to, you know. I think of that often, these days. That these days, it is so easy to give offense. I'm certain there's enough on this blog, for instance, to offend several groups. So far, I've not bothered to censor myself. Or haven't I? Have I said everything I could have said? Have I not stopped to think, rethink, saved drafts and slept over them a few nights, to make sure I wasn't saying something indefensible, to make sure I wasn't crossing any lines of offense?
It is fine to say "but that is the only responsible thing to do". Perhaps it is. And perhaps I have tried to be responsible, rather than afraid. But what if I did say something indefensible? What should have been done to me? What if I did cross all lines, offending everyone right, left and center, across caste, religion and gender lines? What would I lose? A reputation? A home? A career? Liberty? Life?
These are difficult questions. For a writer who is aware of the repercussions, and who isn't in these times, these are beyond moral or ethical dilemmas. These are matters of life and death. Because, really, it takes so little, and makes so little sense. Somebody has a problem with the title of a movie. People could die. Somebody has problems with a beautiful song. People could die. Somebody paints. Somebody could die. Somebody shoots a photo. Somebody could go to jail. No laws are broken. And yet, suddenly, you could be stripped of your right to life and liberty, your right to expect that your country will protect you as a ctitizen.

Take a well-known book that might well have had its demerits, but we aren't allowed to find out. "The Satanic Verses is a rich and complex literary novel, by turns ironic, fantastical and satirical. Despite what is often said, mostly by those who haven't read it, the book does not take direct aim at Islam or its prophet. Those sections that have caused the greatest controversy are contained within the dreams or nightmares of a character who is in the grip of psychosis. Which is to say that, even buried in the fevered subconscious of a disturbed character inside a work of fiction - a work of magical realism fiction! - there is no escape from literalist tyranny. Any sentence might turn out to be a death sentence. And few if any of even the boldest and most iconoclastic artists wish to run that risk."

The above paragraph is from a piece titled 'How Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses has Shaped Our Society' and it echoes many of my own concerns. Not because I wish to criticise religion in print but because I wish not to approach writing with fear in my heart. Because the only thing that fear produces is more fear and any work that has been infected by fear is at best, mediocre, and really, utterly worthless as a testament to a lifetime of thinking and creating. One might as well not write.

While I would urge everyone to read the whole piece, please do at least read this little section:

"The word, though, that is most frequently launched at the heirs of Rushdie is Islamophobic. Almost any criticism of Islam or any of its adherents is likely to trigger accusations of Islamophobia. For example, in 2007 the Channel 4 documentary Undercover Mosque exposed various preachers making hateful and violent statements regarding women, Jews, homosexuals and infidels. By any journalistic measure it was a compelling and revelatory documentary. But in the media storm that followed it was not the inflammatory preachers but the programme-makers who found themselves subject to an inquisition. The police tried to prosecute them for broadcasting "material likely to stir up racial hatred". And when that failed they referred the film to Ofcom for censure. It took nine months before the film-makers were fully vindicated and their professional reputations restored.
Of course, very few people sympathised with the preachers shown in the documentary but many did want to express their sympathy with Muslims in general, whom they saw, not without reason, as an embattled minority. And to the well-intentioned, the best way of doing this was to condemn anyone who criticised any Muslim, regardless of their extremism. As the playwright David Edgar put it: "Whether they like it or not, the current defectors [his term for those liberals who criticise extremist Islamic leaders] are seeking to provide a vocabulary for the progressive intelligentsia to abandon the poor."

Two points quickly made themselves apparent in the wake of the recent madness that was the attacks on Mumbai, starting November 26th. One, people – articulate, moneyed, powerful people – are upset and frantic to ensure that something like this does not happen again. This, I understand.

What I do not understand are certain extreme, juvenile and surprisingly lazy demands from grown-ups who should be able to think through the consequences of their words.

War.

Such a word, this one. We use it during cricket matches. We use it to describe a counter-terrorism operation. We use it to describe a terrorist strike. We use it to describe a verbal spat. We use it to describe separatist movements. We use it to describe non-separatist armed conflicts. We use it to describe breaking marriages.

War. On the front pages of the newspapers, everyday. Editorial teams putting together a checklist of things we should do to our neighbours. American politicians helpfully announcing in public that India plans to strike terror camps inside Pakistan (gee thanks!). Calls for compulsory military training... The rationale for these howls for war is that we are already at war and since we appear to have leads that point to a Pakistan-based terror group’s involvement, we should go invade the country. The ‘teach them a lesson they won’t forget’ rationale.

I sometimes wonder if this generation, the one that has not really lived through a real full-blown war, has begun to crave one. One of those things. Like disaster tourism, crisis tourism, the need to experience the thing physically. There was Kargil, but then Kargil was so far away. An inaccessible spot where the only people really threatened were the guys in uniform and the poor locals who had nowhere else to go. We saw the coffins on TV. We heard the boom-boom. But it wasn’t tangible, was it?

I remember asking my family about war once. I asked them for their memories because I had none. They all wrote back with faint, brushing encounters. The 1962 war. The 1971 war. My grandmother, knitting for the soldiers. Black paper on the windows. Windows tightly shut, dim lighting. Rationed sugar. Food rations. Strangers showing up at school to take kids away from the classroom, under the pretext of war.

And that was then. Before either nation had the nuclear option. Even if we don’t nuke each other, can you even imagine what a modern war would be like?

When the city was attacked by ten men with rifles and bombs, who were firing randomly, upon people of all religions and nationalities, we felt like the whole city was being held hostage. We hated the fact that other people died. But more than anything else, we hated the fact that we couldn’t go on living. That we were forced to be afraid. Afraid of eating out, taking a train, afraid of just being you and not knowing why you are a target. And if I was scared then, I am terrified now, when my country seems to be dragged towards the brink of war. Yet, I notice a glibness sneaking in, an easy, childlike enthusiasm for some fireworks. A 'War, finally!' attitude.

Can you imagine war, I want to ask people? Cowering inside your own house, perhaps feeling it shake, sticking black paper on windows, feeling like a target, day and night. Do you not understand the concept of ‘carpet bombing’ and ‘civilian targets’? Do you think that, while our soldiers are sent off to do battle at the borders, we will be able to sit around sipping coffee, making music, shopping at Linking Road? Do you think Bombay (or Delhi or any other major city) will not be a target? Can you imagine how afraid you will be then, because your kids are in school and you won’t know whether you should just pull them out until things are better, or what? Can you imagine contemplating a pleasant stroll down to the sea when there are bombers flying past, inches away from your bedroom window?

Three nights of a crisis, more or less in a limited part of South Mumbai, and we had an emerging black market for drinking water! And you want this country to go to war?

Who are we fooling about the real purpose of such a war? It is an extremely juvenile imagination that assumes that the extremist outfits based in Pakistan will be sending their cadre to enlist as jawans. It will be the same poor lot on that side, fighting because someone else has called for a war. It will be their little babies at risk. Their farms and schools and hospitals and hotels. And because we are such kindred cultures, they too will have people selling food and fuel on the black market. Probably drinking water too. And, I suspect, they will also try smuggling sugar across the border.

War, they want! War with who? The extremists across the border have been bombing their own country, for god’s sake! Those who came with bombs didn’t come in the name of a neighbouring country. They came from the nation called the lust for power, the nation of the psychologically damaged, whose leaders rarely sign up for suicide missions.

The truth is, people are calling for war because war is easily spoken of, and rarely experienced. All those people who are talking about aggressive action and military training, will they also agree to a compulsory stint in the armed forces? Will they let their children be put into uniform and sent off marching to lob a grenade or two across the border? Nobody minds getting a little toughie training. It adds to our sense of security. But just take a look at the composition of our armed forces. Take a look at what percentage of our officers come from the elite 1%, or even the upper middle classes. Take a look at the average soldier and what sort of options he had and why he signed up at all. He isn’t looking to save our collective backsides. He doesn’t lunch at the Oberoi and he sure as hell does not want to go to war. He’ll go if he has to, but I think he would appreciate it if we don’t sacrifice his head to humour a nation’s hurt ego.

And since we are on the subject of nations, there is that other point of madness: the calls for boycotting of elections, or worse, the notion that our cities and states are better off being ruled by CEOs. Corporates. Because ‘politicians’ are filthy so and sos, and we don’t want any of them.

If there is anything that scares me more than talk of war, it is this sort of talk that wants us to renege on our pledge to ourselves. To stop being a democracy. To turn into a theocracy or a collective of monarchies.


What on god’s earth is this ‘India’? A nation of what? A democratic nation? A sovereign, secular, socialist republic? That was the idea, yes. And look what we’ve done for over sixty years. We voted for religion. We voted for caste. We voted for sub-caste. We voted for class and privilege. We voted for whoever our parents or in-laws voted for. In short, we voted for ‘us’. That is, when we bothered to vote at all.

And now you have the gall to say: vote for ‘nobody’!

Why? Didn’t like your mug in the great national mirror called parliament? The Lok Sabha, the Vidhan Sabha, the city councils, the municipality: this is our face and if it smells like our unwashed armpits, it is because we like to bury our smuggy faces in our armpits so often.

I overheard a conversation in the train, recently. One woman telling another (in the first class compartment) that they should make friends with a third girl, who happens to work with the railways. Because, just in case they ever got caught ticketless, they could call her up and ask her to speak to her railways colleagues and get them off the hook. This is us. This isn’t our bureaucrats or our politicians. Us.

I am both appalled and wearied by the incessant chant, calling for heads to roll in the government, the police and intelligence. This blaming of politics and bureaucracy is just extremely lazy talk.

How blind are you that you cannot see that those heads are really ours? Our states, our cities already have CEOs. They are called ministers. The only difference between a minister and a corporate-style CEO is that the latter pretty much owns you, and you have almost zero power over him. He can fire you. You cannot fire him. Is this what we want India to become? A place where some rich dude rules us, can get rid of us, can silence us, and we cannot do anything to dislodge him?

If we don’t want this, then why do we keep saying it? Why have we gotten to the point that we cannot admit to ourselves that we are actually afraid of our responsibility in this great, big (and yes, flourishing) democracy?

We are, politically speaking, such an ignorant country that it makes me cringe to think of it. Forget elections. Many of us cannot even name our own prime minister and president and the local councillor or MLA. The vast majority of this country simply does not know! A lot of this has to do with illiteracy, yes, but a lot of it also has to do with not wanting to know. And it’s not just the poor and the illiterate. It is because anyone who can afford to takes pride in saying ‘Oh, but I am not a political person’. We want to cut ourselves off from the business of running a nation, or a city. We want the government to function like some sort of sub-contractual service provider. We don’t have leaders because we don’t want leaders. We wanted thekedaars; we got thekedaars!

Which is why I am doubly disturbed by this ‘vote for nobody’ campaign. Yes, I heard about 49O, and I know it is supposed to pressurize our political parties into choosing better candidates. But I am deeply concerned about the language used. To encourage people to vote in patterns that ensure that no clear winner emerges in any constituency is not a very healthy trend in a democracy. It is a lazy trend. It is lazy to just say ‘I choose nobody’ when you should be making an informed choice.

What is ‘nobody’? A ‘nobody’ is a negative. It is a political black hole, the kind that doesn’t do much for people who need light and gravity, both. Perhaps that is what they mean when they say ‘vote for nobody’. Perhaps this is our new face. A nobody face, which does not pretend to stand for anything and makes no excuses for its own ignorance or inaction.

And guess what, I too have had enough. I am tired of having to deal with a philosophy that seems to equate doing nothing with having done something.

We will not bother to vote. We will not bother to create lobbies that pressurize governments into listening to our demands, even in non-election years. We will not vote for independents, because we are suspicious of their non-political antecedents. We will not find out how democracy really functions in this country. We will not even give generously to charity. We will ignore the Bhopal gas tragedy victims and their demands for a proper clean-up job. We will not spend half an hour visiting a municipality office to register a complaint. We will not pay our unskilled employees decent wages. We will not show up at our candidates’ doorsteps, demanding to know what happened to electoral promises, to remind them of what happens when people take loans but don’t pay up. And we certainly will not vote for those who actually have given their lives to social work and bringing change.

Instead, we will pay bribes, kickbacks, commissions. Or else, if we have the connections, we will use a high-up functionary in the bureaucracy or government to bail us out when we get into trouble. And we will go on moaning about the state of the nation and how it can all be fixed if we just stop voting and start making war.

The other day, I went shopping for veggies at the nearest supermarket, and found it almost empty. The girls employed there were kidding around with each other. I heard the word ‘terrorist’. One girl told another she’d set the terrorists after her friend. The other one alleged that she was one herself. Light laughter. Odd, somehow. Perhaps, necessary, somehow.

Yesterday, I’d stepped out with my own bag and a laptop, boarded a train and opened a book. My station arrived, I got off and ten seconds later, wondered why my shoulder felt light. I’d forgotten the laptop in the Ladies compartment.

In a mad rush, I turned back. I had no way of tracking down that same train even if I did follow it in the right direction. The train had started moving by then, so I jumped into the nearest compartment. I almost fell. A stranger reached out and grabbed me at the door, pulled me inside. Others asked me to sit down, catch my breath, relax. I was too worried to step away from the door.

Five years ago, I would have worried about somebody walking off with my laptop, about losing all the writing I’ve done over the last few years. Yesterday, I worried that somebody would notice an unclaimed bag and panic. I worried that somebody might call the cops and the machine might be either dismantled beyond salvaging, or that I would be called in to explain, and who knows if an explanation would be explanation enough.

A couple of days ago, a friend had told me about riding in an auto-rickshaw whose driver wasn’t in the mood for rules. He jumped a traffic light. The cops stopped him, asked for his papers. They asked him his name. Turned out to be a Muslim name. More questions. Many more questions. They wouldn’t just let him got with a fine and a warning.

A woman lives in our building. Introduced herself as ‘Nisha’. My mother, out of old habit, asked for her full name. She said, ‘Oh, it’s a long name, you won’t be able to pronounce it’. Turned out, her real name was ‘Badr-un-nisa’. Not that hard to pronounce, my mother said. If you’re familiar with it, Nisha said.

Another friend mentioned how, as part of a citizen’s initiative, she walked up to the nearest cop on duty and thanked him – the entire police force – for what the cops had done. He laughed in her face and said, why, because this time it was the big hotels, and all you rich people were in danger? He didn’t think our gratitude would last. So much cynicism, I thought, at a time like this? Odd, perhaps, but necessary, perhaps.

Yet another friend had minor shrapnel cuts on her chin. She had been out there with the other journalists, on the streets for two and a half nights. There was no food and drinking water was being sold on the black market. Spirit... city spirits.

Yesterday, I fretted and tried not to think unpleasant thoughts until the train stopped at the next station. I got off and ran back towards the Ladies compartment. The laptop was where I had left it, apparently untouched. Five years ago, I wonder if it would have been left alone.

By the time I found it, got hold of it and stepped down, the train had started moving again. I almost lost my balance. Once again, a stranger’s hands, and I didn’t fall, after all.

On my way back, in the compartment next to mine, a bunch of young women were talking rather loudly. One woman was asking if TADA was a place, because people were always being ‘put in TADA’. Somebody else said it was a special kind of jail. Another was explaining that it was a law. Somebody said something else about Tada-Bida. Light laughter. Odd, somehow. Perhaps, necessary somehow.